


Foundation

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-12
Updated: 2017-12-12
Packaged: 2019-02-13 17:40:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12989133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Legolas gives Aragorn strength in the paths of the dead.





	Foundation

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Just a short thingy for this week’s silmread, wherein Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli walked the paths of the dead.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Lord of the Rings or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

In truth, the dead do frighten him, though he won’t show it on his face or in his walk. It’s that sort of wriggling fear that creeps into the bottom of his heart, born of childhood and long-lost nightmares, that his rational mind overcomes but can’t stamp out in its entirety. For all his strength and blood of old, he’s still a mortal man, and the whispers of the dead still haunt him.

He moves forward anyway. He guides Roheryn by loose reins, and the steady trot of his old friend’s footsteps do ease his soul. Many other friends follow behind them: Rangers that he once feared he might never see again, Gimli, _Legolas_ , and even the true sons of Elrond—Elladan and Elrohir who are, in a way, his brothers. He draws strength from them. All of them. And he presses on through the stale air and cloying darkness, though he can’t see the path before him. 

Some stray wind brushes against his side. He doesn’t tense from it, for the breeze is strangely welcome for such a place, and soon he knows why—gentle fingertips draw along the back of his left knuckles. They lead a soothing dance upwards, drawing around his wrist, where they slip below the sleeve of his tunic and kiss a trail up his arm. They don’t reach far before they fall again, coming back to encircle his wrist, long and lithe and soft as silk. He knows that hand well—he would know it anywhere. Legolas is with him. Legolas thumbs his roughened skin. Legolas moves lower to entwine their hands together, each of Legolas’ slender fingers fitting snugly between his own.

Aragorn can’t hear it, but he can almost _feel_ Legolas whispering into his ear. He’s filled with the memory of Legolas’ sweet voice, with long-past days of lying in different beds—thick mattresses in Rivendell or makeshifts cots about the woods. When he closes his eyes, he can see that beautiful face, gorgeous blue eyes reminding him of summer skies. When he opens his eyes again, the blackness doesn’t seem quite so grey. 

He clasps Legolas’ hand in return. He brings it up to his lips, pressing a chaste kiss against the back. Then he lets it go, and Legolas falls behind him again, in step with all the others.

But it’s worked. Aragorn is again a king of old, leading his people and a new host into battle, and all fear is gone.


End file.
